Heron Lake Plateau Hoping for real betterness

Given recent events, the only way he thought he could provide security was by actually physically there at whatever conflict happened -- after all, problems could come from within, and no saying it respected a pack's borders.  Then he had to police the irrational and nagging spears of distrust that flew in every direction.  He could realize it was wrong, but that didn't meant Quixote had dealt with any of his issues -- he preferred to bury them.  Really, someone should drag him off to therapy.

At least the pups' birth had taken some of the edge off -- he didn't feel like he was worrying about death any more.  Even though that meant he was wasn't quite as obviously broken as when Ceara had brought Moose to the pack, he wasn't back to normal.  Sometimes Quixote wondered if he ever would be, or if the ghosts wouldn't let him.  

He didn't really notice her approach at first, too absorbed on trying to work out the history of smells.  Eventually, an ear swiveled as her steps drew his attention.  Going my way?  His smile was barely more than a flat line, but it seemed he was attempting humor yet again.  Hell, had Ceara ever met him when he was feeling normal?